No Roads Left But One
by Ace-Sherlock-Holmes
Summary: In which Sherlock is gravely injured and John learns to let go of the past. Johnlock. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

It was a bitter night. Sherlock didn't bother pulling his coat closed. He allowed the chill in the air to sink into his bones, making him feel as icy as his heart now felt.

It had been barely a week since he'd revealed to the world that he was alive and kicking. He'd outwitted the nation, as well as Moriarty, into thinking that he'd committed suicide. The wool had been pulled from the world's eyes and the lie had been uncovered. The terrible lie. He did not care what the papers said about him, nor was he affected by the way the media had suddenly turned in his favour (Mycroft probably had a fair bit to do with that.)

The one person that he cared about the most, had reacted in the worst way. That was the reaction that had affected him, the one that had sent him reeling in shock, like his ex flatmate had drowned him, and he was trying to come up for air, but couldn't.

John. His John. How could he reject Sherlock? After all they'd been through. After the risk taking. The sacrifice. The torture that the detective's mind and body had been put through? All for his beautiful, wonderful blogger.

No, a jealous whisper hissed in the back of his mind palace, he's not your John and never has been. And he's definitely not going to be writing up about cases you've been on together any time soon.

John was going to marry Mary Morstan. He'd moved on. Didn't love him anymore. Despised him. Had physically hurt him. The man was a doctor, should have seen Sherlock writhing in agony after he'd landed a painful punch on one of the fresher scars on Sherlock's torso, but hadn't. Or maybe he had and that had pleased him, given him some sort of twisted pleasure, knowing that he had caused his bastard flatmate pain.

The look in John's eyes had been hurt, and there had been betrayal in them, mixed with regret. So much bloody regret. Like John blamed himself for not seeing through the trick. Like he thought Sherlock's deceit had been a direct tactic to hurt him. Quite the opposite. If only John Watson knew the truth behind his actions.

John had told Sherlock to fuck off. Those words, so vulgar, so bitter, had torn through Sherlock like an actual bullet, leaving behind an awful ache and pull inside his chest where his heart was.

His mind had clouded over and he'd found himself beyond clarity and reason, returning to one of the less favourable drug dens that he'd frequented on a daily basis back in the day. That had been before John, and before the cases, and before he had anything to live for.

Sherlock, with a sudden revelation that jolted through him like ice, realised that without John Watson in his life he really had nothing to live years of fighting tooth and nail, with men bigger than him and more dangerous, and all to keep John safe, so that one day he might return to him. And now…now it all seemed rather pointless.

He entered the dingy space in front of him, pushing past a door that was starting to come off its hinges. The odour that clung to its walls smelt like piss,human feaces, and defeat. It was where he belonged. He was no longer Sherlock the brilliant detective. That title had been ripped from him the moment he had lied to his friend. His best friend. No. His only friend, he corrected.

He took one more step forwards and that's when he saw it. The flash and gleam of a knife shining in the dim moonlight pooling through the gap in the doorway. The hand of a local drug addict gripped it tight, twisting it viscously as a threat. A warning.

Sherlock's lips twisted upwards with smug curiosity. He peered through the dark, trying to decipher what kind of person his attacker was. A lad, just a kid, nothing special. Probably not capable of brandishing such a weapon, so not a object to worry about, merely an obstacle between himself and his first hit in two years. Billy. Twenty five years old. Aged beyond his years because of drugs. A chemistry student. Someone who had clearly nowhere else to go.

"Stay back, ya 'ere me? Stay the fuck away from me. What are you doing 'ere?"

Sherlock held his hands up in mock surrender and snorted, a puff of his cold breath spiralling out into the air. "Come on Billy. We both know you won't stab me. You're not the type to kill. You're a drug addict. That's all. That's OK, so am I. That's what I'm here for."

This had apparently been the wrong thing to say. The boy's arm jerked upwards almost of its own accord, the sharp point of the knife edging its way closer to Sherlock. "How'd ya know my name? No one calls me Billy. Just my Mam and she's… she's dead. Only she gets to call me that!"

"Alright," Sherlock stumbled back. That was unusual for him. Stumbling. He was usually so light on his feet. A dancer. John Watson was clearly clouding his cognitive skills, as well as his judgement. "Calm down. I'm no use to you if I'm dead."

"What use are you to me alive?" Billy swung the knife in front of him. Sherlock could see that boy's twisted, hungry grin. When you're homeless, your entire family dead, with no purpose in life, he supposed that there was nothing holding the man back from stabbing him.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," His words were out before he could stop them. He had not considered that the presence of a detective, one associated with Scotland Yard no less, was an unwelcome sight amongst the drug den's walls.

"The dead guy? One that faked his suicide?"

Sherlock licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "The one and the only."

"Shit, bugger, fuck." Billy swore loudly. Something flashed in the lad's eyes. Something dangerous. Then, before Sherlock had a chance to escape or duck out, he felt a sudden impact against his abdomen. At first his brain told him he'd been punched by Billy, but the sharp pain that ripped through him soon corrected his thoughts. Not punched, no. Stabbed, definitely stabbed.

He cried out, the sound strangled and rough, like sandpaper rubbing against the inside of his throat. His entire body swayed and he staggered. He was like a drunken man trying to keep upright. The tight pain in his stomach was bad now, but he imagined that it was only going to get worse if he didn't do something to stop the blood flowing out of him.

He managed to stagger out of the drug den, away from Billy and the taunt of the glistening blade, now covered in red. It was cold and beginning to rain, leaving the curly haired man shivering and moaning in discomfort. He slid down against a solid brick wall, the rough pain of the hard surface digging into him a pleasant relief compared to tight, pulling sensation in his lower stomach.

He'd watched John save people's lives time and time again, so he knew that he should know what to do in the case of a stabbing. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had been stabbed, of course. There had been his torture in Serbia. But he hadn't been alone back there. There had been a medical team waiting to save him. And his brother too.

He looked around, his head swaying unsteadily on his shoulders. He half expected his brother to have called for an ambulance by now, or for the man to step out of one of his ominous black cars to save him. But Big Brother wasn't coming for him, he realised with a sinking feeling.

Mycroft was too caught up over the possible terrorist attack hanging over London. It was also unlikely that Mycroft's people knew where he was. Sherlock had chosen his location to get high specifically because no CCTV cameras had access to it. Not even Mycroft's bright assistant - what was it today?- Anthea? Amy? Not even she would be able to arrive with help in time.

A horror steadily filled Sherlock up. It was like he was breathing in water, drowning whilst being stuck on land. He had come to a discovery that made him feel sick (or perhaps his nausea was due to the blood loss.)

Sherlock was bleeding out. Dying. Alone. He was really dying this time. There was no wriggling out of this one. He wasn't dying for a noble cause, for his beautiful John, he was dying because he had wanted to drown his sorrows by pumping drugs into his system. And why? Because John didn't love him anymore, didn't even want him as a friend!

"Oh," Sherlock didn't even recognise his own voice. He sounded strange, distant and small.

The hands that had been pressed to his stomach rose, one nimbly resting on his lips. He could taste his blood, feel it slick on his hands. His eyes rose bright with tears. He was alone. What did it matter if he cried? Who was here to watch his emotional defences crumble?

Not Big Brother. Not mummy. Not darling father. Not wonderful Molly Hooper. Or Lestrade, the man that had originally saved him from wasting himself on drugs. Most importantly, John Watson was not there to see him.

He began to sob softly, noises escaping him that hardly seemed human. He wanted to erase the past two years. If he could he would have stopped his past self from "jumping" and would have gone to John and told him the truth. If Sherlock had had the chance he would have taken John by the shoulders and kissed him - all sensible thoughts about them just being flat mates flying out the window.

Time can not be rewritten.

But the future is what we make it.

It was not too late to say goodbye. Or to tell John the truth.

His hands slid weakly to his jacket pocket. The object of his desire slipped and slid away from his grip, protesting against the slick wetness of the blood on his fingers. When he eventually managed to pluck out his phone, he entered his contacts and clicked on John's name. Two years later and John was still one of his most important contacts on there.

The first time he tried to call John, it rang out.

The second time the call was answered, but quickly hung up on, as though John had answered it without realising it was Sherlock calling.

The third time Sherlock was desperate, torrents of tears sliding down his sharp cheekbones. Please pick up, please answer, please -

The phone audibly clicked against Sherlock's ear. His hands were shaking, almost too weak to hold the device up. He heard an angry - scratch that - furious - sigh. John.

"Sherlock, I told you to fuck off. I mean it. I don't want to hear your bloody excuses. You hurt me. You lied to me. You…you cock! Not some pissy little lie, either. A big lie. You can't just turn up in a restaurant, on the day I was bloody going to propose to Mary, mind you, and expect me to take you back like nothing happened. Like I didn't watch you fall, didn't look down at your broken and crumpled body. It took me weeks to get the blood out of my hands. I thought it was your blood. Thought I was the one who'd spilt it from you, because I left to go check on Mrs Hudson and… give me one good reason why I should listen to a single word you have to say."

"I'm dying," Sherlock whispered, breathing now ragged and coming out short.

A choked laugh. Disbelief. "Yeh, right. OK. No. I'm not falling for that kind of crap again. You think I'm stupid , don't you? Think I'll just fall for one of your tricks again. Not this time."

"No,"

"I'm sorry?"

"No. I don't think you're stupid."

"You have a bloody funny way of showing it."

"John, please -"

"Please what Sherlock? What do you want me to say?"

Sherlock sniffled, his eyelids resting just for a moment, so that he was completely emerged in darkness, nothing but the sound of John's breathing filling his ears. He felt like ice. His blood was mixing in with the onslaught of rain water, gushing out of him like a red waterfall. He was so cold all of a sudden. Like the life was draining out of him quickly - almost as if he was already a corpse - ready to be poked and prodded at in a mortuary.

"Sherlock," There was a pause down the line. John sounded a bit concerned now, almost like his old doctorly self. "Are you…crying?"

Sherlock sniffled and didn't deny it. "Death is as horrid as they say. Worse even. It hurts. Crying is a natural reaction. It's very human. Isn't that what you always wanted me to be? More human."

"Fuck," That woke Sherlock up a bit, forced his eyes to open, despite how heavy and tired they felt. When John swore it was always with real emotion and there was always a reason. There was the panicked sound of John shuffling, shoving shoes and a coat on hurriedly.

"What are you doing?"

"Coming to get you. I might hate your guts right now, but I'm not going to let you die, just because I'm being stubborn."

"Why bother? By the time you get to me, I will be dead. You will have to stare at my broken body again. Wouldn't want to bother you."

"Dammit Sherlock, I have to try. Don't you understand that? I have to try and save you. I couldn't before, but I'll be damned if I don't try now. You've go to stay awake, OK? What are your injuries?"

"Stabbed, in the gut. John, there's a lot of blood. I don't know what to do. Oh God. I just don't know."

"Hey, hey, stay calm. Sherlock Holmes doesn't get scared."

John is wrong. I am scared. But not of what he thinks. I'm not scared of death - I would embrace that any day. I'm scared I've lost him for good.

"What do I do?" Sherlock asked, faking calmness in the tone of his voice. Inside he felt like screaming.

"You need to stop the blood loss. If you lose too much blood then you run a risk of going in to Hypovolemic Shock."

"I'm guessing that that's a bit not good."

"More than a bit not good. If that happens then your heart will begin pumping too fast, you won't have a sufficient amount of oxygen to breathe, and essentially you'll…"

"Die. Yes, thanks. I get the picture. How do I stop it? I don't have anything with me. I'm not medically equipped."

"You have your scarf, don't you? Press it to the wound nice and hard. It's going to hurt, a lot, not going to lie, but the pain is much better than excessive blood loss, trust me."

Ah, yes. The blasted thing seemed a bit tight around his neck actually. He tugged at it and dragged it down, bunching it in his fist and pressing it against the gaping hole in his lower stomach. He let out a startled sob. Oh god, that hurt. The blue material quickly began to soak in the liquid, turning a dirty crimson.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you OK?"

"OK."Sherlock confirmed through gritted teeth. "Now what?"

"Now you sit tight and I'll be right there."

Sherlock's brow creased with worry. "You don't even know my location."

"I've been working on that bit. You have a smartphone-"

Sherlock was about to question John when the line cut out. The phone battery had died. "Dammit!" He screamed, tossing the useless object out into the alleyway.

It landed with an awful clatter. There was no hope for John to find him now. All that breath wasted. Instead of asking John how to live, he could have told him how he felt. How he loved John Watson. How he had always loved him and even death would not stop him feeling that. Both his hands clenched around his scarf. It was beginning to stick to him, bits of the tassels sticking in his wound.

Sherlock was tired, so exhausted by trying to stay alive, and his eyes were beckoning him to sleep. A few seconds of kip wouldn't hurt, might make the process a little less painful even. His eyes fluttered shut and his entire body fell limp, pale fingers uncoiling around the useless material of his scarf.

* * *

The hands were unexpected and made him gasp and splutter. At first, he thought that Billy had returned to finish him off, but no - the hands on his face were kind and gentle. They rubbed against his cheek almost… affectionately. John.

His eyes widened and he tried to speak, but he could barely breathe, let alone get the right words out. John traced a finger along the curve of Sherlock's cupid bow and shushed him gently. "It's OK. Save your breath. You're going to need it. I called an ambulance. They'll be here any minute now."

John looked like he'd been crying, eyes wet and bright. Sherlock wondered silently whether he had a minute left to spare. His felt like death barely warmed over.

"Cold," he whispered hoarsely.

John frowned. "Yeh, that would be the blood loss, and the fact you've been sat in the bloody rain bleeding out for the past god knows how long."

John shrugged off his jacket. It was the same one he'd worn on their first case together, albeit battered and worn with age now. Much like the man himself. As gently as he could, so not to jostle the him to badly, the coat was placed over Sherlock's damp and bloody body.

"How did you find me?"

"Like I said before the phone cut off , your smartphone. Our first case, remember? The GPS system that helped track down the killer. I thought that it would lead me to you and it did. I found you and you scared me so much. I thought you were already dead."

"Sorry to disappoint you. I'm not quite there yet." A dry humourless sound slipped over Sherlock's lips.

"Don't say that. Don't say it like I want you dead. I don't." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock gently, his thumbs rubbing patterns along the back of the great Belfast coat, not caring that Sherlock's blood was staining his clothes, not caring about anything other than getting as close to the injured man as possible.

Sherlock was overcome with desperation to be close to John. Inhaling his scent thick and fast, as he buried his overgrown curls against a warm and familiar shoulder. "John," he said with a definite finality. "I want you to know something,"

"Nope." John said sternly. "We are not doing this here, not in a bloody alleyway. We wait until the ambulance gets here and we get you patched up. Maybe then, and only then, we can talk about this."

The ambulance sirens were closing in now, but Sherlock was fading fast. He could feel his heart beating too fast, his lungs constricting in on themselves because there wasn't enough oxygen circulating around his long, thin body. His grip tightened on John, pulling him closer. "No time for that, I'm afraid." His breath was hot and sharp against John's ear. "John, I love you."

John shook his head. Pulled back. The tears were running freely now. "Don't you bloody dare say those words then leave me. Please. Just this once, don't be the bastard that breaks my heart."

Sherlock groaned and slumped forwards. John's screams echoed against his eardrums, faint and fading away.

The ambulance arrived. At last.

"Finally!" John spat. "You took your time."

The crew rushed forwards, armed with a stretcher. They pushed John out of the way, and he was forced to watch hopelessly as they dragged the lifeless body of his best friend onto it. They managed to control the bleeding with a pressure against the wound. It would have to do for now. As soon as Sherlock got to the hospital, John knew they would have to operate on him.

John had advised them of the blood loss that had taken place the moment he'd made the call, and so they were prepared. They hooked him up to a large bag of blood. There was a moment where John had to hold his breath because they couldn't find a good vein, and the needle wasn't making an impact. But at last one of the older men on duty managed to get it in and the blood started to drip into the Sherlock's body.

An oxygen mask was placed carefully over his pasty grey face. John had never seen Sherlock so colourless… even the corpse used in the faked suicide seemed to have held more life than Sherlock in that very moment. John felt his gut drop.

What if Sherlock died that night? For real this time. Sherlock hd attempted to call him three times. He wondered what state Sherlock would have been if only he'd picked up his mobile a little damned faster, and hadn't hung up on him the second time. Would they be at the hospital by now?

He rode with Sherlock that night, clutching his beloved friends hand as though his own life depended on it. Were they friends anymore? John didn't even know. The whole dynamic of their relationship had changed so drastically. John had really thought that he'd hated Sherlock. For days he'd tossed and turned in bed despising the man. But now… Sherlock had told him that he loved him…had actually said those words.

John knew that Sherlock was better than all that sentimental business; so those words were either a lie or a truth brought to light because the man was dying. Either way, it didn't seem to matter anymore. John leant over Sherlock and pressed his lips against the man's sweaty forehead in a somewhat kiss.

"I love you too, you great idiot." John prayed that Sherlock would live. He would have loved to kiss Sherlock, hold him close, take in his scent for one final time. He wanted to do all those things and more. He just wanted the chance to love Sherlock and to let the man know that he was loved dearly.

The night stretched on. It was tense. Sherlock's heart stopped, that's what they told John when he asked them how the surgery had gone. Sherlock had died. For real. And then he'd been dragged back to life, almost like the universes sick joke. The doctor's worked on him into the early hours of the next morning. All John could do was pace and wait for news. Good or bad.

He ignored his phone when it bleeped. Mary asking him where he was. Sarah rebuking him for not being at work and for once again failing to be there for his patients. John did not care. Mary could wait until this nightmare was over. Sarah would just have to deal with one more day without him. Right now Sherlock was the only patient that John could bring himself to care about.

Mycroft turned up five hours into the surgery. He looked as pristine as ever, not a hair out of place. How could the man look so bloody put together, when his baby brother was laid out on the surgery table, possibly dying? He did look a bit pale though, as though he hadn't slept properly, like he'd left whatever secretive business he'd been up to in a hurry.

"John," he nodded curtly, staring with an almost vacant expression at his blasted umbrella.

John glanced up at the Elder Holmes. He was still angry at Mycroft. It had been his plan, after all, for Sherlock to jump and fool the world into thinking he was dead. To fool him. But, the trouble was, John just didn't have the heart to yell at him. Mycroft was fragile right now and John could see right through him like he was a fucking icicle - he was hurting - possibly even scared that his brother was going to die in the night.

"How -"

"How is he?" John said snappily. "I found him bleeding to death, stabbed in the gut, outside a drugs den. How do you think he is?" Mycroft dabbed at his forehead, wiping off a sheen of sweat. He looked upset - troubled - and that made John instantly regret his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I'm just worried about Sherlock."

"I am… concerned." Mycroft said after a moment. "I had not been anticipating this. I could not see the obvious, and therefore I was blind sighted into thinking Sherlock was safe."

"The obvious?"

Mycroft looked directly at him. "You. I could not see you."

"Me?"

"Yes. I had hoped that my brother's ridiculous infatuation with you would have faded by now. Love is dangerous for a man like Sherlock, especially when it is not returned. Unrequited love, now that is positively devastating."

"What are you talking about?" John swallowed. He was fairly sure that he knew what Mycroft was saying, but a part of him still required further clarification.

"Sherlock Holmes is heartbroken, John. Surely that much is clear. Heartbroken over you. Did you not wonder why he was near a drugs den so soon after you rejecting him? You might as well have been the one to stab him. Kill him." That smug grin - oh how he hated that grin - how perfectly it curled and snarled beneath that beaked nose.

He launched to his feet and stalked over to the red haired man. Mycroft was an intimidating man but John was a soldier and was not a bit scared of him. "I want you to go,"

"No,"

"No?"

John's fists clenched by his side. "Why? Why are you doing this? Sherlock has been in hospital plenty of times. You never showed up. You never cared before. Why now? Why after all those times are you here?"

"Things are different now. Sherlock has been through a lot. He's…fragile. And," Mycroft licked his lips slowly, as if trying to process his own words. "I think that his loss may just break my heart."

John blinked. Mycroft had never been so open and honest about his emotions. For a moment there John had forgotten that Mycroft wasn't a heartless devil in a suit. He'd totally skipped over the fact that Mycroft Holmes felt things… that he had a heart. Well, John supposed, of course he did. Both the Holmes brothers were human, and had the ability to love. They just had a bloody ridiculous way of showing it.

"I'm sorry," John apologised. He'd been so close to hitting the man. "I didn't think. I didn't realise… yeh…you probably have more right to be here than me."

"I am not the one he will want when he wakes up,"

"If," John corrected. "No, when. He will wake up. I am sure that neither of us have seen the backside of Sherlock Holmes yet." John huffed a broken, tired laugh.

"That day would be something to see."

"The whole of England might just stop." Mycroft was smiling now. Well as close to a smile as the pompous prick could manage, John supposed.

The two men were interrupted by the sound of the door to the surgery room opening. A weary, but pleased surgeon walked out, pulling off his gloves with satisfaction written across his face. "I think he's going to be OK gentlemen. He survived the major surgery. We'll keep him hooked up to some blood until I'm satisfied his blood volumes are back to normal, and he's not allowed to move for quite some time, less those stitches tear."

"He's going to be OK?" John questioned in disbelief. He couldn't believe it. His heart felt ready to burst from its cage with joy and his legs threatened to collapse beneath his as he tried to process the feelings of shock - concern - elated happiness.

The surgeon grinned, nodding. "Mr Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man."

"Can we see him?"

"He's still groggy from the surgery. Probably isn't making sense. But sure…I don't see why not."

"I should, um, attend to some important government business." Mycroft nodded affirmatively and began to spin on his heel.

"Ah, no." John actually had the bravery to grab Mycroft's sleeve and drag him back. "You are going to see your baby brother and be perfectly civilised, aren't you Mycroft?"

" I really must insist on leaving-" Mycroft gazed at John, conflicted and trying to search for a way he could get out of having to face his brother.

John shook his head. " If you go now, I don't think he'll ever forgive you."

Mycroft's resolve seemed to crumble. "Very well, if you insist."

"I do. Now, am I going to have to drag you by your cuffs? Or will you come quietly."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "There's no need for that."

"Good."

John took the lead, pushing past the surgeon and into the dim hospital room. He was instantly aware of the steady bleep, bleep of Sherlock's heart being monitored. He'd never been so relieved in his life. He took his seat my the younger Holmes's bedside and took a hold of one of his hands, squeezing it tight.

"Gave us quite a scare back there."

"Us?" Sherlock asked, looking at John with bleary eyes. John grinned and nodded at the doorway.

With a slight tilt of his head, Sherlock caught a glimpse of his older brother standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Oh." Sherlock said, voice quiet.

"Hello brother dearest." Mycroft took a seat on the opposite side of Sherlock's bed. He was more hesitant about touching Sherlock than John, but gradually he reached out for Sherlock's spare hand - the one the good doctor wasn't clutching - and he tenderly soothed his brother for the first time since their childhood.

John Watson and Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's personal angels perched at each corner of his bed. Both smiling because of the same reason; Sherlock was very much alive.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time that Sherlock roused he was vaguely aware that he was in hospital.

John and his brother were sitting at each corner of the cot he was laid out in. It had been a surreal experience, to say the least, seeing both his uncaring brother and his distanced friend sat around him, in what looked like angelic poses.

Mycroft Holmes was the furthest thing away from nurturing as possible, and yet there was something caught in his expression that was positively brotherly.

Those were the days, Sherlock thought to himself.

Sherlock and Mycroft had not always quarrelled. It was only as of the past few years that they had been locked into an almost constant battle with one another. Yet, all of that seemed to have been forgotten; water under and old bridge, or so they say.

Sherlock had a very sneaking suspicion that John had everything to do with Mycroft sitting by his side. If anyone could get through to Mycroft about sentimentality, it would no doubt be John Watson.

John had gotten through to Sherlock, after all, not that he had showed it directly. Sherlock had been very careful to secrete his emotions behind a solid mask of indifference. He'd been in love with John Watson for years, but had barely taken the time to admit it, even to himself.

He could pinpoint the exact moment where he'd come to the realisation that he was very much in love with John Watson. It had been as he was stood on that blasted rooftop, Moriarty whispering instructions into his ear in that silky Irish voice, coming clean on his promise to burn the 'heart' out of Sherlock.

John Watson being Sherlock's heart in that particular scenario. When Moriarty had threatened to kill John, Sherlock had tried to picture his life without his faithful blogger, and had found that he simply hadn't been able to. The mere concept of a world without John Watson was to painful to bear, so he'd made a sacrifice, he had died in the name of saving John Watson - because yes, he loved him dearly and held him in very high regards.

Of course, he had miscalculated. He hadn't gone as far as thinking about how John was going to react to his death. He'd hurt John, very badly, and it felt as though the sacrifice had been an incredible selfish act, instead of an act to save his best friend, the man who had warmed his ice-laden heart.

He didn't deserve the attention they were giving him. The way they were looking at him, as though at any moment he might just fade away, was making him feel very uncomfortable.

His brother should have been appalled by his destructive behaviour, should have been scorning him for his foolishness, but instead he was looking at Sherlock like he was a ten year old boy again.

As for John, the man should have been fuming, filled with resentment over Sherlock's "fake" suicide. As it was, he could distinctly envision the worry and concern on both of their faces.

The next few time he opened his eyes it was just John.

Brother dearest had left to deal with some world crisis. Or perhaps he was visiting mummy and father. How disappointed his parents would be over this whole ordeal, sitting in the knowledge that their youngest boy had once again been placed in a death defying situation, after another attempt of shooting up. Their line dancing would once again be disrupted, thanks to his substance abuse.

John held his hand. Whispered comforts to him. At once point Sherlock was certain that John's lips had touched the back of his hand. That could have just been wishful thinking, though. Every time he thought he felt John caressing his skin, his internal voice snapped at him with vicious vigour.

Why would John ever want to kiss you? After what you've put him through, I'm surprised he even wants to look at you. You're a freak, Sherlock. An untouchable, unlovable freak.

Every time he slipped in and out of consciousness, he felt wave after wave of guilt and confusion threatening to consume him. He was drowning under the weight of it all, with each time he woke, it was like inhaling thick, treacle air, his chest tightening with a mixture of feelings that he could not quite depict.

The feeling of guilt was attached to the image of John Watson's face; it was pinched with worry, bags of exhaustion hanging heavy beneath his eyes, the fear and constant panic written between each and every worry line. John looked older than Sherlock remembered. His hair was beginning to to fade into brackish grey, only a few sparse blonde hairs remained.

That was his fault. He was responsible for John always being so worried. He'd faked his death. He'd turned up without notice, and had unreasonably disrupted the new life that John had been building with Mary he'd almost died again, this time for real, and John Watson once more had been dragged through hell, all for him, all because Sherlock was selfish and had wanted to get high.

He should have stayed away. Away from John Watson. Away from London. Perhaps he should have taken up the offer to work for his brother, to infiltrate foreign country's, to stop terrorists, and work beneath the British government's thumb. At least that way John Watson would not have been put through so much grief. He'd be able to lead a healthy, normal life, marry a beautiful wife, and father children. That is what his friend deserved. Not this. Whatever this was…

"You're thinking out loud again."

Sherlock felt a callous thumb rub gently across the knuckles on his right hand. He exhaled heavily as he tried to push back the burbling butterflies in his stomach, that seemed to rise up every time he felt John's tender touch. He felt guilty whenever John touched him like that, for he was clearly getting a lot more out of it than John.

He was glad for the hospital bedsheets, as they more or less hid how much John was affecting him. He felt dirty and sinful just feeling the way he did, and he hoped upon hope, that if John did notice anything, he would just allow it to slide.

Slowly, he turned his head towards the direction of John's voice, and his eyes fluttered open, his thick eyelashes blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the harsh hospital light. It hurt to keep his eyes open for too long, but he forced himself to keep his eyes as wide and alert as possible, just so he could look at John Watson for a while longer.

"Was I?" He replied nonchalantly. "What was I saying?"

"You said that you should have stayed away."

"It's the truth, is it not? I think that we would all be better off if I had stayed dead."

The grip on his hand automatically tightened. A direct response to his words, he noted.

"Don't say things like that. I don't want you dead. I can't live through that again. I can't. I went insane."

Sherlock's eyes swept over John swiftly. Observing. Deducing. There were so many things about John Watson that had changed, evolved, or rather had reverted. John was as haunted, if not more so, than when Sherlock and John had first met.

Restless sleeps. Nightmares, no doubt. Bad dreams about him. No, about the fall, about standing over his bloody corpse, about believing that Sherlock was dead, longing after a life that he could no longer detain. The slight tremor in John's hand had returned - the one hand that wasn't clutching Sherlock's own, was sat pressed firmly in between John's thighs to stop it from shaking. Had John completely reverted? His eyes wandered down to the man's leg, but there was no way of telling if the limp had come back, not without John standing up.

The question must have lingered in his expression for far too long, for John seemed to have cottoned on to what Sherlock was trying to deduce.

"It did come back for a while, but when I got your call, when I knew there was a chance I could lose you all over again, I forgot about it. I ran through London like a bloody maniac. It was like our first case all over again." John was beaming at him, flushed with happiness, as he revelled in the memory of their first case together.

Sherlock wanted to allow himself a smile. That was one of his favourite memories, yet now it felt tainted and dirty, and he was the only one to blame for that. He didn't deserve anything good, and with a tight clench of his jaw, he fought back any spark of happiness his past case memories brought forth.

He could not get past the lump of guilt that had formed in his throat. He'd caused John so much pain - he'd done that - why was John still sitting at the edge of Sherlock's hospital bed? Why wasn't he still infuriated? He deserved hatred, not compassion.

John Watson should have left him to die in that alley way.

This time the wave of emotion that rocked through him was catastrophic. He could hear John calling him, trying to pull him out of his volatile thoughts, but Sherlock's mind was fogged over.

Can't think, can't think, can't think…

He couldn't prevent the pain from showing on his face, and despite how hard he was trying to slow the angry beating of his heart, the machines that he was attached to gave him away. The beeping sped up, building into a crescendo, the sounds soaring higher and louder.

His breathing quickened, along with the pulse in his wrist. His lungs were constricting, failing to draw in breath, refusing the air that his body so desperately needed. He wanted to gasp and gulp and sob, but instead he could barely get out a breath.

John Hamish Watson, good doctor as always, leapt into action, palm hitting the emergency cal button next to Sherlock's bed. This made things so much worse. There were nurses and a doctor -but not the right kind of doctor; not John.

John's face was pushed out of his line of sight, which only induced further panic within the detective. Where was John? Where had he gone? Had he left? His eyes darted from nurse to nurse. They were speaking to him in hushed tones, touching his face softly, calling him things like "darling" They were being nice to him, despite his reputation, and the fact that his numerous trips to the hospital had labelled him as the worlds most dreadful patient.

He paid little attention to them, all external sounds being drowned out my his own thoughts.

I told you. You're a freak, Sherlock. Of course he's left you. Time to sleep now, Sherlock. Sleeeeeep.

He was momentarily aware of a sharp pain in his arm, and a few moments later his thrashing movements stilled, and his entire body felt like a weight was pressing up against it, dragging him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Upon waking up from his drug induced sleep, Sherlock's eyes caught sight of John once more, looking even more worn out than he had previously. His heart lurched at the sight in front of him, made him want to scream again, but he resisted from doing so. He'd expected to wake up alone, without John by his side this time, but his dear Watson was camped by his bedside like a good solider.

The anguish on John's face was enough to kill Sherlock. It was more effective than a stab wound, the sensation tearing through his flesh and muscles; emotional pain converted into very real, very physical pain. He was getting hurt over and over again.

It was unbearable. He wanted to scream, rip his hair out, pound his fists into the hospital bed beneath him. John seemed oblivious to the mental screaming taking place inside Sherlock's head.

"This place must be a dream. It's not every day that you get the drugs actually attached to you!"

Sherlock knew that John was putting on a brave face. Typical John Watson. Always pulling on a smile, a facade, just to make other people feel better.

"Not good for the brainwork."

"You won't be working for a while." A further frown line marred John's face, and Sherlock felt his stomach drop in disappointment.

Before he could stop it, a low whine escaped the back of Sherlock's throat, in a form of deep protest. Without John the brainwork had become a necessary object of interest in his life. The work was all he had now. He needed the work in order to forget.

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock. You got stabbed. You're going to be in pain and discomfort for a while yet."

Good, that's what I deserve. Pain. Suffering. Discomfort. It's the least I deserve. Let me have this John. I need to hurt. Need to be punished for the awful things I have put you through.

"It isn't as though I'll be running around London. I just need the brainwork. Especially since - "

"Since what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Clearly it does, otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up."

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock repeated, this time a little bit firmer than previously.

"It matters to me. I'm not stupid, you know. I've noticed that there's something not right with you. It doesn't take a genius to deduce that."

"There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine."

John snorted loudly in disbelief. " You're such a liar."

"You've only just come to this conclusion?"

"Shut up and get some rest."

"I'm barely tired."

"Liar."

"I'm really not-"

"Sherlock," John reprehended the younger man. "Go back to sleep now or I'll get the nurses to sedate you again."There was a rough element in John's voice, one that left little room to argue with.

Sherlock closed his eyes, but he didn't fall asleep straight away. Instead, he remained awake, listening to the sound of John's close by presence. After a while he heard John break the pattern of his breathing with an elongated sigh.

"I wish you would just spit it out already, Sherlock. I hate seeing you like this. You were so worked up before. If I didn't know better I'd say you had an anxiety attack. But that's ridiculous, isn't it? Sherlock Holmes doesn't fear anything, does he? What could Sherlock Holmes ever be scared of?"

Sherlock snorted and even behind his closed lids his eyes rolled. "I think both you and I know that is one of the bigger lies I have told. I am susceptible to fear, as much as any other man, I just choose to deny it."

"For once in your life, tell the truth, what is it that you fear so?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at John straight in the eyes. "You mean that you are really that oblivious?"

"Apparently so." John shrugged and looked at Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock felt a lot like he was under some kind of scrutiny - it was making him feel quite uncomfortable actually - and he shifted under the bedsheets awkwardly.

He felt vulnerable. John Watson made him feel so open and vulnerable. There was nowhere to hide this time, no words he could use to cover up the truth, no clever tricks or distractions that he could pull out of the bag. He had run out of options.

"Alright then," He nodded, licking his lips tenderly, as he considered his next words. " If you must know what I am fearful of, what has me on edge, well that is very simple. It's you. John Watson is what Sherlock Holmes is scared of."

John blinked. His scrutiny merged into shades of surprise. "Me?"

"You have ears, do you not? That's what I said. Yes, you."

Sherlock could tell that his face had flushed a vibrant red. He was embarrassed by what he had admitted, and the connotations that his words had within them. He wanted to tear his gaze away from John, however he found that he was stuck in a trance, staring at John like a wide eyed child.

"Has this got to do with what you told me? In the alleyway you, you know, well you said-"

"That I loved you. Yes, I was there for that part, though I couldn't be certain whether I dreamt it or not. Most stabbings lead to hallucinations after a certain amount of blood loss. There have been known cases where-"

"Shut up." John held up a hand, and Sherlock firmly clamped his lips together, to stop any further words from escaping. "You're an idiot. You know that? I love you too, you great idiot. I've loved you since our first case. I was captivated by from the very start. All you had to do was tell me and I would have dropped everything for you. Surely you should have deduced that by now!"

Sherlock stared blankly at John. Since their first case? How had he not noticed? Had it really been staring him point blank in the face for all of this time? He shook his head to try and clear it of fog, but he could still see no certain answers on John's person, and the words his friend had said did not connect with any deduction he could find.

"I can't deduce anything. It appears by deduction abilities are severely affected by my emotional attachment to yourself."

"You're in love, you blind idiot." John was grinning at him so wide that Sherlock couldn't help put break into his own beaming smile. "Hang on, wait a sec, you said you were scared. I still don't understand. Scared of what?"

Sherlock's grin dispersed quickly and he had to think carefully about how he responded. "Rejection, I suppose."

"Oh." John's face fell. "I guess I can see where you got that idea from."

"You told me to fuck off. You said very clearly that you never wanted to see me again."

"I was angry. People say things when they're angry, things they might regret later."

"Even to people they supposedly love?"

"Especially to people that they love." John confirmed. "I was hurt Sherlock. I thought you were dead. I was allowed to believe that for two years, and you were alive for all that time, whilst I was hurting. Can you see how that's a bit not good?"

"It wasn't exactly a piece of cake for myself, John. I wasn't playing hide and seek for two years. It's not as simple as that."

"Then you can explain yourself over dinner when you're better."

"Why over dinner?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to John's insinuation.

"Maybe I want to take you to dinner," John said, emphasising each and every one of his words.

"I see," This time Sherlock cottoned on, his ears turning a dark shade of pink. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"You are soon to be a married man. You are engaged to Mary Morstan."

It was John's turn to look embarrassed, turning his gaze to the hospital floor. "She broke it off with me. She took her stuff from the flat yesterday. She seemed convinced that I couldn't put my heart into the relationship, at least not with you lying in hospital. "

"Did you love her?" Sherlock asked. He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible, but his words were tainted with an edge of jealousy.

"I do love her, Sherlock." John worried at his lips with his teeth. He'd clearly doing that a lot over the period of Sherlock's hospital stay, as his lips were a bright red. "When you died, so did I. Mary taught me how to feel alive again. I'll always be grateful to her, but she wasn't the first person to make me feel that way. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes. You love both of us, but you are a man who values loyalty, so you had to make a choice."

"It doesn't mean I value her any less, just that - " John looked conflicted, torn in two, and once again Sherlock couldn't help the wave of guilt he was currently rolling in. "It's always been you. Right from the start. I want you to know that. It's important."

"It's always been you," Sherlock repeated John's words carefully, trying his hardest to replicate the tenderness within them. "You should know that, too. Where do we go from here? What's the normal protocol?"

The sudden burst of outrageous laughter from John was unexpected. Sherlock was unsure of what he had said to warrant such a reaction. At first, he was certain that he had said something wrong.

"I'm sorry, sorry, Jesus I haven't laughed so hard in a long time!" John had been laughing so hard tears had welled up in his eyes, and he had to wipe them away with the backs of his hands.

"Did I say something a bit not good?"

"No, no, it's not that. It's just, Sherlock, when has our relationship ever been normal?"

Sherlock couldn't help but find the humour in the situation as well, as was soon grinning right alongside John. "I suppose you're right. However, just because our relationship isn't normal, doesn't mean we have to skip out on the normalities of dating. I would not want to miss out on a vital part of the courting process, after all."

"You want to court me?"

"Of course. It is the proper thing to do with one you love, is it not? Or do you think it rather old fashioned? Of course, if you would prefer a more modern approach we could always-"

John leaned in to press his lips to Sherlock's own, soon shutting the detective up, rendering the hospitalised man quite speechless for once. "No, it's fine." He murmured, echoing his own words from their very first case together. "It's all fine."


End file.
